Raney

by Clyde Edgerton

  “Well, if it’s something definitely wrong, like cheating, I’d have to tell him.” I don’t know what to do. I doubt Daddy would do anything. He’s always making excuses for Sneeds.

  IV

  We have two cars. The Dodge Dart and the Chevrolet Daddy gave me. The Chevrolet was in the shop yesterday and so Charles had to come get me at the store on his way home from the library. It’s the only time he’s picked me up in the three weeks I’ve been working there.

  I’m in the back of the store when he walks in with Sneeds right behind him. He gets a Pepsi at about the same time I start up front. When he gets over to the cash register, where Sneeds is waiting, Sneeds reaches under the counter and pulls out this slick, shiny Penthouse magazine and slides it across to Charles at about the time Charles looks at me and I look down at the magazine and then right into Charles’s eyes which are not looking back into mine but are instead staring at the cash register.

  Sneeds rings up the magazine and the Pepsi and says, “Did you bring a bottle?”

  “I don’t want the magazine,” Charles says, shaking his head.

  “What’s the problem?” says Sneeds, who, I all of a sudden realize, don’t know that Charles is the Charles who is my Charles. Charles hardly ever goes in the store. Or so I thought. Live and learn.

  Well, listen: I won’t born yesterday. I just took my pocket-book from underneath the counter, walked out front and got in the Dodge.

  Charles comes out without the magazine, drinking on that Pepsi. He comes up to the car window and do you know what he says? He says:

  “Is there an empty bottle under your seat?”

  “I don’t know, Charles—there’s no telling what might be under there. Where’s your magazine? I came out so you could buy it.”

  “What magazine?”

  Sneeds sticks his head out the store door. “I’m sorry, man, I swear. I am sorr-y.”

  “What magazine?” I say to Charles. “That slick, shiny Penthouse magazine, full of filthy pictures of naked girls that Sneeds slid across the counter to you just as natural as . . . as . . . selling a . . . a . . . shiny red chicken to a black snake. That’s what magazine.”

  “That’s none of your business, Raney.”

  “Well, if it’s none of my business, how come you clammed up like God was watching you?”

  “I said it’s none of your business. Don’t change the subject.”

  “I swear, you must go in there as regular as meals to pick up a copy of that magazine. And Lord only knows where you hide them at home. Where do you hide them?”

  “Raney, I said it’s none of your business. It’s absolutely none of your business. We happen to be living in a free country which tells me in it’s own constitution that I am free to read what I want to, when I want to, without reporting in to you.”

  “If you’re so free, Charles—where’s the magazine?”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, Raney: it wouldn’t hurt you to pick up a few pointers from Penthouse.”

  “Charles, you son of a . . . , if you’ve got something to say to me then say it. Don’t hide behind a stack of filthy magazines.”

  “Raney, they are not filthy magazines. Filth is in the mind of the beholder.”

  “You can say that again. And that’s what I mean, Charles—you are filling your mind with filth.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about how you define what you see. I do not define it as filth and you do define it as filth so what I’m saying is: speak for yourself.”

  See how he is. Here I am trying to say how I feel. That’s what Dr. Bridges kept saying: “Get in touch with your feelings. Get in touch with your feelings and express them. You’ll only be telling the truth.” I know exactly how I feel about this magazine business but as soon as I express that to Charles, he gets off on some dictionary definitions. It’s just like him. I’m concerned about this whole issue of sex in a consecrated marriage. How am I supposed to carry on a normal sex life with somebody who is reading these filthy magazines and coming up with no telling what in his mind. That was the whole problem on our honeymoon. I’ll bet you five hundred dollars.

  “Charles,” I said, “the problem is this: I don’t know what to do in a marriage that has this extra ingredient of filthy sex in it.”

  Charles didn’t answer. He got in the car and we drove on home without saying one solitary word.

  When we walked through the front door I said, “Charles, where do you keep all those filthy magazines?”

  “Raney, it seems to me we could just leave this whole discussion off—cancel it, forget it.”

  “That would be fine with you, but what happens when you catch me doing something wrong?”

  “Raney, you don’t. . . .”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you see that. . . . Listen, when I read one of those magazines, you tell me who is being hurt.”

  “First of all, Charles, you don’t just read the magazine, you look at it.”

  “Okay, okay—whatever. What I want you to do is tell me who’s getting hurt.”

  “Charles, the Bible warns against lusting in your heart. That’s all I need to know about the subject. That’s all I’m supposed to know about the subject. That’s all I want to know about the subject. That’s all there is to know about the subject.”

  “Raney, don’t you see what that does to me? Don’t you see how that leaves me without a chance to communicate anything about this to you? Don’t you see there is no way I can talk to you now, and I have things inside me that I want to say—that I want to explain?”

  I could tell he was serious. It seemed like he really did want to talk—like he needed to explain something, and Lord knows we’re not all perfect, so:

  “Okay, Charles,” I said. “I’ll listen. You go ahead and talk and I promise I’ll listen.” Dr. Bridges would have been proud.

  “Raney, I can live a perfect sex life in my body, a faithful sex life. No problem. But not in my mind. Why did God give me this kind of mind if he—”

  “Charles, you can’t—”

  “Raney, you said you would listen.”

  You know it’s really hard to listen to somebody when they’ve got something completely wrong. It’s almost like you want to mash them out, do away with them, clean them up.

  “Okay,” I said. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, for some reason—I guess because we reproduce biologically—I have an attraction for the opposite sex. I didn’t put it there. It was there when I came along. Now what am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Well. . . .”

  “No, wait. That was a rhetorical question.”

  “I was just going to answer it.”

  “No, a rhetorical question doesn’t need an answer.”

  “Then why do you call it a question? I never heard of a question that don’t need a answer.”

  “It’s a statement in question form.”

  “Well, why don’t you just—”

  “Wait a minute, Raney. Let me finish? Okay? Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, I can’t hide what flows around in my mind—and furthermore, I don’t intend to. And I believe we should both be entitled to certain privileges of privacy. I believe that with all my heart, Raney. That does not mean anything about my soul going to hell. It does not mean anything about my having a filthy mind. It does not mean anything about my being unfaithful. It does not mean anything about committing adultery. It does not mean anything but that I am practicing my freedom, in a free country, with a God-given mind that has fantasies sometimes for God’s sake.”

  “Charles, I don’t think I can talk about this.”

  “Raney, please. I’m not asking you to talk about this. I’m asking you to listen. To try to understand my point of view. You don’t have to agree. Listen, you don’t have to agree with any of this. I’m asking you to try to understand something which you don’t necessarily agree with. And then we can be different. We can be different about
some things, Raney. It’s okay. The world won’t fall apart. If we could just agree to disagree and not get all bent out of shape. That was one of the main things we decided in therapy.”

  “I’m not all bent out of shape.” I was thinking that if I could hold off, not get mad—go ahead and let Charles get all of this out, then maybe down the road somewhere we could solve the problem, and in the meantime, he’d have to listen to my views on all this. “I’m okay. I’m glad you’re getting all this out, Charles. I think that’s a good idea . . . and. . . . Where do you keep all those filthy magazines?”

  “Raney.”

  “Well?”

  “Raney, I—”

  “I just don’t want to stumble over one of those filthy magazines some day when I’m looking for some reading material for our son or daughter.”

  “Raney, have you listened to—or heard—anything I’ve said?”

  “I think so.”

  “I hope so.”

  I don’t mind us disagreeing so much. It’s just what we disagree over. And I do wish we could disagree over things it’s okay to disagree over. This sex business is one of the few areas in the universe, it seems to me, that we ought not to disagree over. What kind of car you want—okay. Whether to get the freezer on top or on the bottom of the refrigerator—okay. Whether or not to plant corn in the garden—okay. But there are some things. And sex is one of them. But I do think Charles and me have got to give each other a chance to talk about things. Next time he’ll have to be quiet and listen to me. I did my part this time.

  Some of what he said did make some sense somehow. I’ve just never thought about it along the lines of living in a free country.

  V

  There is this hussy in Listre—Thomasina Huggins. She lives five or six miles down Route 14 and she comes by the store about three times a week. Her husband left her and moved to Alaska. She’s after Sneeds—anybody could tell—and I guess she’s caught him.

  Daddy gave me a key to the store in case I need to get in for any reason when it’s closed. Last Saturday night, when I needed some eggs for Sunday morning, was just such an occasion. When I drove up I noticed Sneeds’s pickup truck and Thomasina’s black and orange Thunderbird parked around at the side of the store. The store closes at six on Saturdays, and it was about nine-fifteen when I pulled up.

  Well, I’m not one to pry, but I absolutely had to have a dozen eggs. I unlocked the door and went in. I didn’t try to be noisy and I didn’t try to be quiet. The light from the street light was strong enough for me not to have to turn on the overhead light.

  They were in the feed room. I heard them. And the light was on in there. The door was cracked. And the eggs happened to be by that door. So I had to see what they were doing. I couldn’t help it.

  They were sitting on three stacked bags of feed amongst all the other bags on the far side of the feed room with their feet on another bag and they had on just their underpants and were reading this magazine—just thumbing through it. It was one of those you-know-what magazines. And there was Thomasina’s dinners just hanging there as big as day. I was absolutely shocked that something like this could be going on in my own daddy’s store. I felt like I was in a trance. Her lipstick was as red as a candy apple and she had on dangly shiny ear rings. Tacky.

  Sneeds poured her something out of a bottle into a plastic cup and she says, “Not too much, Sneeds,” and giggles.

  Well, what was I to do? I stepped—and the floor squeaked as loud as a creaking door. When I lifted my foot it squeaked again. They looked in my direction and I started for the front door and said real loud and innocent, “Is anybody here?” There was nothing else to do. There was this scrambling and the feed room door slammed shut.

  I hollered, “Sneeds, is that you?”

  “Yes. It’s me. Is that Raney?”

  “Yes. I just had to come get a”—I looked to see what was close—“flashlight battery. See you later.” And I got out of there. I had the eggs, too.

  Well, I have never. Sneeds Perry, of all people. Who I work with. What could I do? Talk to Sneeds? Charles? Daddy? I didn’t see how. Aunt Flossie? Dr. Bridges? I guessed not.

  Well, Monday morning Sneeds acted nervous and jumpy. Who wouldn’t? I didn’t say one word. I didn’t even look at him. I just went about my business, and at about ten A.M. when I’m back wiping off the drink box, he comes up behind me and says, “Did you know Thomasina Huggins and me are getting married?”

  “Lord, no,” I said, and kept polishing.

  “Yep, we are. But we ain’t told nobody.”

  I turned around and leaned up against the drink box.

  “Yep,” says Sneeds, “we were having a little engagement party when you came in Saturday night. But we don’t want to tell anybody, so don’t mention it yet.”

  Sneeds was lying bigger than a house. He wadn’t a bit more engaged than me. He had had his fingers in the cookie jar that very weekend in the very feed room we were standing beside and was trying to mask it all over by lying to me about being engaged.

  “Well, Sneeds, it’s none of my business what you do in that feed room.”

  “What do you mean?” he says.

  “Just that. It’s okay whatever you do.”

  “Did you look in there Saturday night?”

  “In where?”

  “In the feed room.”

  “I certainly didn’t.” I felt my cheeks and neck getting hot. “Sneeds, I’m real happy you’re getting married and I just suppose I think a feed room is an unusual place to have an engagement party.” I started wiping the drink box again—with my back to it.

  “Well, the truth is, Raney—we keep a little bottle back there and we just stopped by for a little harmless nip. And I’ll tell you something else: you only live once.”

  All this was too much. I got the conversation stopped, went back to polishing the drink box, and Sneeds went back up front.

  Engagement party my foot. It was a party all right, but not an engagement party. They were having a mighty good time and it came back to me about what Charles had said about nobody getting hurt making something all right. Just because nobody is getting hurt does not make something right. Nobody was getting hurt when Hitler started making speeches before World War II or when the Japanese were on their way to Pearl Harbor.

  If Sneeds and Thomasina had been married, maybe it would have been different.

  Monday night I’d decided to talk to Charles about the whole incident when Sandra and Bobby Ferrell (who’ve been saying they were coming to see us) knocked on the door.

  Charles gets furious when somebody decides to just drop by and he refuses to go see anybody unless they know for sure he’s coming. I say that takes all the surprise out of it, which is one of the best parts of a visit anyway. Charles thinks it has to do with manners and he can’t understand that since Sandra and Bobby were raised around here they don’t have all these insights into Emily Post that he has. And never will, or want to, or should have.

  Anyway, they came on in and sat down and asked us to sing a song. We sang a bluegrass arrangement of “Bless Be the Tie that Binds” which I worked up last week. We both like it and plan to start finishing all our gigs with it.

  When we finished, Bobby and Sandra clapped. Then Bobby started asking Charles questions like he was getting to know him. He asked Charles if he ever did any hunting. I’ve heard Charles talk about hunting just enough to know he don’t like it.

  “No, I can’t say as I have,” said Charles. “Never had the heart to.”

  “Never had the heart to?” says Bobby.

  “That’s right. Never had the heart to.”

  “Well, the way I always look at it,” says Bobby—“Do you eat chicken?”

  “Yeah, I eat chicken,” says Charles.

  “Well, the way I always look at it is this: somebody has to kill the chicken, and the chicken is meat and the way I look at it is—I might as well kill my own meat. I mean what’s the difference?”

  “
Well, the difference is—”

  “I mean it all comes out the same.”

  “Well, I’d never thought about it exactly that way. I think—”

  “Most people don’t. I mean if a person absolutely refuses to eat meat for some reason then I don’t have no argument, because it’s a fact that I do eat meat and if they don’t, I can understand them being against killing it. It’s just that if I eat it, then I don’t see that it makes no difference who kills it—me or the butcher.”

  “I don’t have any problem with eating it,” says Charles, “but I think I would have some problem shooting it—whatever it is: a squirrel or something. The idea of my taking away life just happens to bother me.”

  “Charles,” I said, “you don’t seem to mind catching fish. That’s not exactly logical is it? You’re taking away a fish’s life as much as a squirrel’s.”

  “It bothers me more with animals because—”

  “Wait a minute,” says Bobby, and laughs. “Animals kill each other, you know.”

  “People kill each other!” says Charles. “That doesn’t mean I’m supposed to kill people!”

  I was getting embarrassed. Here was Charles already raising his voice, but on the other hand I could see why. I realized I hadn’t ever talked to Bobby very much—or he hadn’t ever talked to me very much. He was insisting too hard on this subject of hunting all of a sudden; and in a way I didn’t blame Charles for raising his voice. I couldn’t figure out exactly what Bobby was getting at.

  Daddy asked Charles to go hunting once and Charles said no and that’s all that was ever said about it. I figured I ought to say something on Charles’s behalf:

  “But, Bobby, what if you don’t like to shoot things that are alive?”

  “Well, not only do these animals, and fish, kill each other for a purpose, unlike people—I mean hawks killing quail and rabbits and stuff—but you’ve got the natural environment doing the same thing. I mean flash floods and so forth wipe out millions of animals a year. And another thing: money from hunting licenses helps preserve wildlife, which is one of the reasons it’s good to hunt.”